Help, I'm Alive
by Middendorffi
Summary: My mind pulled me back into the night on the beach, back when I had no idea of the horrors he committed, I just cared that he was dark, darker than I ever could be. All I wanted was for him to touch me, to never stop...All I wanted was him. WARNING: Violate/Lemon/Kinky/Knife play
1. Chapter 1- Help, I'm Alive

**Help, I'm Alive**

_I tremble_

_They're going to eat me alive_

_If I stumble_

_They're going to eat me alive_

_Can you hear my heart beating like a hammer?_

"No, Vi, you don't understand." He says quickly, pacing the cramped attic, and scratching at his head with the blunt side of the machete-like blade he used to threaten me up here. I couldn't die again; but I could sure as hell hurt.

"If I just let you go, you won't ever forgive me; you won't ever just stop and listen to me, because you're stubborn." He kneels down to my bound body, strapped to a psych ward-esque mattress placed on the floor. Cuffs attached to the bed secure my ankles and wrists, allowing some movement, but forcing me to lie on the mattress. _Where does he get this stuff anyway?_

"You've gotta understand, Violet, I have to make you see." He says, his black eyes glittering with tears, even as they harden.

"Do you even hear yourself? You're crazy, there's nothing to understand because you don't make sense!" I exclaim, trying hard not to raise my voice too much. I'd tried screaming when he first strapped me down, and I think he actually broke my windpipe for a moment before it stitched itself back together.

My words bring the tears he was holding back streaming down his face, and for a moment I feel like a horrible person. Then I remember I'm strapped to a bed.

"NO. You don't mean that, I know you don't, you love me!" He sobs. I don't say anything because it's true, at least on some level, I still loved him. He wipes his face with his too-long sleeve and stands up to pace.

He stretches and runs his hand through his blond grunge locks, trying to calm down it looks like. He stares at the blade in his right hand for a moment and he sighs, turns around, and walks toward me.

When he reaches my side he perches himself on his feet, bending at the knees. "Violet," He murmurs, and his voice is eerily calm. His hand pushes strands of hair away from my forehead, ghosting my skin. "I need you to stay very still, okay? If you move you could get hurt." The glint of the blade flashes out of the corner of my eyes.

I tremble, and bite my tongue hard to fight the urge to scream.

Tate leans his body over the mattress, placing a hand on either side of my head. His face burrows into my neck and I feel his lips brush against my skin before he places a soft kiss there. Shivers roll down my body and I feel him smile against my neck before he pulls away.

"Tell me, Vi," he says, staring at my arm. "What is _this_?" He slides his fingers down my skin, tracing the Goosebumps there. _Is he serious?_

"T-Tate, I'm fucking terrified." I grit out, and he stares me dead in the eyes. "Maybe." He shrugs, and replaces his fingers with the sharp edge of the blade, tracing the pattern he made. My breath hitches in my throat. He drops his head to my right ear. "But. I think, it's also something else… I think I _excite_ you."

He pulls back to study my reaction. His eyes are like obsidian, hard and lifeless. My heart is beating like a hammer and I squeeze my eyes shut. _His eyes…_ I don't expect it when his lips collide with mine, pressing hungrily, fighting for a reaction. It was strange, like kissing a ghost of a memory. My mind pulled me back into the night on the beach, back when I had no idea of the horrors he committed, I just cared that he was dark, darker than I ever could be. All I wanted was for him to touch me, to never stop, and even to take my virginity. All I wanted was _him_.

But that's not now, and as I snap back into reality I'm not sure if my momentary trip to Lala Land resulted in me kissing him back. But by his inflamed passion, I could assume I had. My eyes fly open and I start shaking my head, breaking the kiss and hiss "Get OFF of me!"

Tate does completely the opposite, and instead heaves himself up, swinging his right leg over my body, now straddling me. He grabs my chin and forces me to look into his eyes. They're orbs of oil, slick and poisonous. I freeze.

"Good, that's my sweet girl." He purrs. He leans in and nips me on the ear, and I choke out a partial groan before I can stop it. "Just stop fighting it, Vi. _Please_..."

My head spins as he takes my earlobe into his mouth and sucks gently, and then bites down hard, eliciting a gasp from me. He trails kisses down my throat and his hand grasps the hem of my long heather grey dress. He brushes my cardigan down off my shoulder and teases the skin there with his teeth. His left hand is gripping my leg just above my knee, and his other hand is gripping the knife, trailing it up and down my right arm, absentmindedly.

His left hand roams my body until it comes to my breasts. He grabs one through my dress for a moment before he impatiently shoves the cups upward, exposing my breasts. His mouth crashes back to mine, and he guides my mouth open with his, letting his tongue inside. He pinches a nipple roughly, causing me to moan loudly into his mouth.

It feels as if my body is on fire, and it's difficult to think straight. Our mouths feel like one, and I can't help the little moans that escape when he presses his jeaned cock into my body or bites my bottom lip so hard he draws blood.

He breaks away to pull his shirt over his head, and I whine at the absence. His body is more built than he looks in his clothes; it takes me by surprise, just like the first time. My blood is on his lips, making them a vibrant red; he looks happy, and despite all he's put me through, it warms my heart. He grins down at the expression on my face, and the way he shifts the hand holding the blade reminds me that I'm supposed to be scared. Panic remembered, I try hard to buck him off, struggling against my bonds.

"Easy, Violet." He says softly, swiftly bringing the blade up to rest at my throat. I continue for a second too long, and it nicks my throat. The stinging pain causes me to cry out, and I'm shaking as Tate dips his head down to drag his tongue across my wound. I practically convulse it feels wrong, so intimate, _so good_.

"_Mmm_…" He hums, pulling back up to gaze at me. He licks his lips deliberately and I swallow the instantaneous lump in my throat and try to squeeze my legs together subconsciously. I can hear that I'm panting and my face burns in shame.

"_You_ weren't supposed to move." He says, pointing the tip of the knife in my direction. My heart twitches painfully in fear. He smiles suddenly, and it's too inspired to be reassuring.

He positions the knife carefully at the middle of my chest, just below the collarbone, and at first, I fear he's going to 'kill' me for my indiscretion only to have me come back minutes later. But he lowers the knife to my skin and presses hard, dragging it all the way down to the deepest part of my cleavage. The pain causes fireworks to explode behind my eyes, and I start to scream but he clamps his other hand over my mouth.

He lowers his head to kiss up the bloody line, smearing it over my torso. It must not have been as deep as it felt, because when he tongues this wound, it feels mostly gone already, and his mouth just leaves a dull ache of pain and pleasure in its wake.

_What is __**wrong**__ with me?_

His mouth returns to mine, and the taste of my own blood is not repulsive, as it should be, but erotic. His hands push my dress up and he claws at my backside as he grinds into me again. His mouth moves down to my breasts, and he licks around a nipple before taking it into the warmth of his mouth and biting down gently with his teeth. Then he moves to the other one.

_Fuck it, I've lost my mind._

When his mouth comes back to mine I kiss back with all I've got, considering my situation. He seems to notice immediately, and for the first time since this all started, Tate moans, loud and rumbling in his chest.

We kiss violently for what feels like a long while before he backs off and uses the knife to cut the binds holding my wrists. We grasp at each other wildly and I hear the knife clatter to the floor. My legs move of their own volition to wrap around his waist, but naturally, they can't. "The other one too, Tate." I say, breathing heavily, and he looks wary for a moment before he kisses me so hard on the mouth it hurts, pressing his body into mine. He then leans over and grabs the knife, quickly cutting the remaining bindings before discarding it and moving back to me.

He drags my panties down my legs slowly and then tosses them across the room. His lips are on mine when he slips two fingers into me, pumping them in and out slowly as I make strangled groaning sounds. I feel his thumb move around to rub my nub, and I grunt, making my ears burn with embarrassment. His mouth shifts temporarily to your ear to whisper, "Violet, you're _soaked_."

I whimper as he continues the thrusting of his fingers, and delicate stroke of his thumb. He picks up the pace and I can feel my pleasure building, but suddenly his hand is gone completely. "_Tate_—" I start, unreasonably pissed with his stopping. He merely chuckles and pulls my dress, cardigan, and bra over my head in one foul swoop and returns his hands for another minute.

Then he pauses to take off his jeans and boxers. I sit up on my elbows to look. I'm fascinated by the large smear of blood on his chest, now dried. His dick looks larger than I remember, and it's pink and strained looking. He holds it in his hand and rubs it roughly against my opening. He moans and I squirm. He does it several more times before I blurt out, "_Tate, __**please**_."

"Please what?" He replies cheerily, repeating the motion.

_Dick._

"Fuck me, Tate, _please_!" I plead.

He thrusts into me swiftly, and we both cry out. He leans over me for a moment, his hair tickling my face. He kisses me softly on the mouth, whispers that he loves me, and then he begins thrusting, in, and out, building up his pace.

It's rapidly built up to a violent rhythm, and he's gripping me so hard I know I'll have bruises—at least for a minute.

I lose all conscious thought and simply thrust up to meet him, fucking out all the pain of my past, our past, and we're a tangle of limbs, moans, and quickly healing nail-dug bloody scratches.

Impossibly, he speeds up and starts fingering my nub again. I writhe and moan, pushing against his hand and cock. The tidal wave of pleasure formed deep within my body to a crest, and I hover there a moment, feeling like I'm floating.

_God, fuck me I'm __**alive**_.

Unexpectedly, he twists my nub with his thumb and forefinger and everything crashes, again and again. I cry out, and hear him follow soon after, still pumping slowly for a second.

We just lie there for a moment, panting, his head resting against mine, damp from sweat. Tate groans and pulls out of me, moving to lie at my side. He pulls one arm behind his head and a lazy grin spreads across his face. Tate Langdon, buck ass naked, not a care in the world.

He pulls me close and I let him—_because really, what is that compared to all the wrong that just happened?_

It takes a while, but I'm the first one to talk—

"Tate?" I mumble.

"Hmm?"

"This can't happen again."

"Sure Violet, whatever you want…"

**AN: This is a oneshot for now, though I could be _convinced_ otherwise, as this was _riveting_ to write.**

**Edit: Lol, jk, I caved, next chapter is going up.**


	2. Chapter 2- Nobody, Not Even The Rain

**II. Nobody, Not Even The Rain**

_I know that someday you'll be sleeping, darling_

_Likely dreaming off the pain_

_I hope you'll hear me in the streetlight's humming_

_Softly breathing out your name_

Sometimes I just want to reach up and gouge my eyes out, over and over again. Anything to make all the fucked shit going on seem a little less real.

But I don't. Because it's all for her, so it's worth it. _Anything will be worth it._

I try to focus on that, as I drag the teenager with long, chestnut hair and in a too bright yellow dress into the river nearby. She's thin, like her, so she's not hard to move—though I never noticed how hard these things were anyway…I had started to. But now, it's like before, before that incident with the Ramos boy. It was easy, like riding a bicycle.

_Violet won't like it._

As I give the girl a final shove into the waters, I'm disgusted at myself for feeling, even just for a second, that she could help take the pain away.

Today is Halloween, 2020, over eight years since I vowed I could wait forever for my dear Violet. I really thought I could, and I really did try, but time wore down my resolve, and I cracked.

I suppose this makes me a liar, but Violet of all people knows that. She knows that, and much, much more yet she still loves me, even if she isn't ready to forgive me.

As if it hasn't been hard enough, that skank Hayden has been ragging on me ever since. She just doesn't stop. Asking me to have sex with her, to let her blow me, anything her deranged, attention-starved mind can come up with.

'_It's not going to last, you know, your feelings for her.'_

'_Forget about her for a few fucking minutes.'_

'_Maybe if you made her jealous…'_

'_You've got no chance, Romeo.'_

'_Come on, it's only a fuck.'_

I never said yes to her, but maybe what I'd done now was worse. I watch her body get taken away by the strong current and another wave of self-loathing washes over me.I've already caved and tried to fill the void left by her with a filthy hipster knockoff._ So weak_.

I couldn't help myself.

I thought, maybe if I could get to her tonight, maybe I could show her, that things could be like they used to be. That she didn't have to worry now, because I was better. Her light took all of the anger, and the fucked up visions, and made them into love, for her. Her family was better, finally happy, we were _all_ better.

But when I finally found her—on the beach of all places—cruel hope tore through my chest like a knife. _Maybe she felt the same way._

I was so happy, delirious, that I almost called out to her before I realized she was shouting something at the ocean, shaking her arms agitatedly. I duck behind a bush nearby to hear.

"—IF YOU LOVE SOMEONE, YOU SHOULD NEVER HURT THEM. NEVER. That's what you said, but you lied, didn't you? That's all love is, _pain_." Her speech trails off into garbled cries.

I see her arms and they're dripping and stained with blood. She was cutting, not gesturing. I can't see the razor in her hand, but I know it's there. I'd seen her cutting before; I can never stop myself from watching, staying hidden, but still watching over her. It's always been her coping mechanism and now that she can't _die_ from it, it seems natural she would start again. Even though I usually feel a strange mixture of anger and sadness—_she promised_—I know that she doesn't owe me anything.

I always try to remind myself that it doesn't mean as much anymore, those endorphins are addictive, and damn it, Violet deserves to feel _good_.

But this time is different. She's shouting, at me. She's in pain—_and it's all my fault._

I ran then. I ran until I couldn't see anything, and then continued, blindly. Visions of masked monsters and demons flash in my vision. _Your fault, it's your fault, your fault, yourfaultyourfaultyourfault._

When I come to I'm lying on a jogger's path in the middle of some kind of park and I thought I saw Violet above me, asking if I was okay, but it's just _her_. Some fifteen or sixteen year old thrift store junkie, with long, dusty hair, and eyes too big for her head.

"Why aren't you wearing a costume?" It's the third thing I think of, and the first I say.

"I'm a little too old to be trick or treating." She says sardonically, raising one eyebrow and tilting her head, _like Violet would_, and I want to talk to her.

"It's pretty brave to be out here alone." I say, standing up.

"What should I be afraid of, you?" She laughs and I smile.

"Where were you going, anyway?" I ask.

"The cemetery, wanna come?" My cock twitches against my jeans.

"Sure."

* * *

We arrive at the cemetery, and there's fog everywhere. Vaguely I think of the sarcastic remark Violet would make about how stereotypical this was. How her eyes would roll around to emphasize her point. She would drag her fingers through her hair at the same time.

Then **her** too-high voice breaks me out of my reverie, and I had to restrain myself from acting on the blind, white-hot rage that tears through me. I glance sideways at her spot, leaning against a large headstone.

"Check out what I've got." She says, pulling out a bag containing a single joint. _Filthy._ "Wanna toke?" She's already taking it out of the bag and flicking her lighter on, so I shrug and sit next to her.

We pass the joint back and forth, and I'm reminded of how differently drugs affect me now. It feels like my body has no bones, and disjointed words float as pictures of letters in the air, and I can play with them, move them with my fingers. I'm rearranging 'Violet's hair' into 'oath Vile sir' when she speaks again. "Whoa dude, I think you've been hogging it." She chuckles, taking the blunt back. "So what's your name anyway?" She asks.

"Max." I reply immediately and I'm not sure why.

"Max, huh? That's a hot name." She squeaks. The letters say _'That slut is flirting with you'_. And it's so funny I burst out laughing.

"Thanks," I choke out, the last of the laughs leaving me winded. I don't ask her name, I don't _want_ to know.

"Very hot" She purrs, dropping her voice lower and one of her hands comes to rest on my jeaned upper thigh. Violet would never say classless bull like that, I know. But in that moment I don't care.

I grin at her the devious way that I know melts girl's hearts and leaves them quivering. I take the joint and inhale deeply, holding it until the fire burns so hot in my lungs I can't stand it, then exhale, tossing the joint to the grass. "Hey!-" she harps, but I shut her mouth by covering it with my own.

I press into her lips, a soft growl rumbling up my chest. _I've missed you._ _God, I've missed you._

The euphoric sensation that fills me when I nip at her lips and hear her gasp is so fantastic that I can't allow it when she tries to pull away to take a breath. I press closer to her, laying her down on the grass and weigh her body down with mine. I tangle her hair in my hand and pull, thrusting my tongue into her mouth when it opens in surprise and pain.

Her tongue swirls around mine and I groan.

She grabs my t-shirt and lifts it up my arm and over my head. My hands rest in her hair and at her hips, grasping, clutching, holding on for dear life. Her legs cross behind my back and she lifts her bottom off the ground, grinding, searching for friction. Her hands graze my chest and arms and I lean into her touch.

I lose track of everything but touch, and my mind flies pleasantly out of the way as my body focuses itself on groping, kissing, and biting.

Then suddenly it all pulls into sharp focus when she grabs my crotch, and pulls. "Why don't you show me that big cock of yours, Max?" She breathes, and its like alarms go off in my head, angry and red. All of a sudden I can't breathe, can't think, my body's too hot-_wrong, wrongwrong_. I shove myself off her.

_NO. This isn't right, not her, it isn't __**right**__. What would Violet say? She can't. I can't. __**Vulgar**__. Dirty. Wrong. I love her. It's not her. This girl. Her fault._

I'm shaking in rage, anxiety and other red things when I hear somewhere in the distance, "Dude, what the fuck?"

"Shut up." I say quietly. _I have to make it right._

"What the fuck did you just say to me?"

I snap.

"Just SHUT your WHORE mouth!" I roar, and I don't recognize my own voice. I see fear in her eyes, and it makes me want to tear them out.

She recoils slightly and spits huffily, "I knew you were a fucking freak." She gets up to leave. _No._ "Freak?" I say, stepping in front of her path. "You try to _fuck_ a stranger in a goddamned cemetery, and I'm a freak?" I laugh and grab two fistfuls of her hair and pull so that she has to look at my eyes. She freezes for a moment and her eyes go wide, and I know it's because of what she sees there—or doesn't see.

She jerks away, but I keep my hold, and now she's flailing, trying to swipe at me. She manages to slash a nail across my face and I can feel the blood that slides down my cheek. I can't stop laughing now.

I shove her backwards by her hair, and she falls back, hitting her head on a tombstone. _Violet can't find out_. As she's dazedly trying to get back up, an animalistic kind of calm washes over me.

The rest of what happens is blurred in my mind. I remember blood, a lot of blood; I remember her screaming for a while. Then she wasn't making any sound at all.

Now she's somewhere down the river and I can focus on the important things.

_Violet_.

I need her; I realize that now more than ever. Without her, I'll go crazy. I'll go _mad_.

_I need to make her understand_.

I go home early, knowing the house will nearly be empty tonight. But of course, as soon as I step in the door, I hear my mother calling for me from the basement. _Why today?_ I phase down right in front of her, hoping to scare her.

"OH!" She gasps, hand to her mouth. "You know I hate it when you frighten me."

"What do you _want_?" I growl.

She frowns momentarily, then her smug face comes up and she croons, "What I _want_ is for my babies to stay out of trouble." She grasps a lock of my hair and moves down the length, her fingers come back bloody.

"Nobody saw, ma." I sigh, jerking away from her touch.

"Believe it or not, Tate, you are not my _only_ responsibility." She rubs her temples as if she has a headache. "Michael has been stirring up all _kinds_ of trouble."

"_Michael_? Listen, mother, I don't have time to worry about your ineptitude as a parent." I say, brushing past her.

"He's _your_ son, Tate. You shouldn't forget that." She puts her hand on my shoulder. "Somehow, he's even more a monster than you are."

I shove her away and she simply laughs and walks up the stairs, leaving.

* * *

I'm grateful that her visit was a short one. Soon after she leaves, I go to the attic to think. I have to figure out how to get through to Violet. _I have to make her see._ I pick up an old hunting knife in the attic.

_I know that even with the seams stitched tightly_

_Darling, scars will remain_

_I say we scrape them from eachother, darling_

_And let them wash off in the rain_

_And when they run into the river_

_Oh no, let the water not complain_

**AN: Can't get enough of our little psychopath. I feel like this chapter was a bit clunky. But I wanted to add somethings so that it would work as a series. To clarify, this chapter takes place before the first one. I think I'll switch between Tate and Violet POV each chapter.**


	3. Chapter 3- Bitter Fruit

**III. The Most Beautiful Bitter Fruit**

_It's fear fiction, these visions, caught somewhere between delusion and prophesy._

_What I haven't done, what I've wanted to, and what I fear you have_

_Becomes reality here._

…

_A roaring undercurrent simple and sensory._

_Young bodies, warm skin, perfect symmetry and_

_It's a moment, harmless. It's energy._

_It's like medicine,_

_It's self-discovery._

It's been almost two years since that—_Wonderful? Horrible?—_night with Tate. It's hard to tell exactly how long, time moves so differently now. I can be looking at the peeling wallpaper of my old room, and suddenly my mom comes in, telling me she hasn't seen me in weeks. It's scary; it almost feels as if I could really just fade away like that, staring at wallpaper. I know I should be keeping busy, like my parents, scaring away residents, rearranging furniture…

I've just been distracted.

_I should've never let that night happen._ I tell myself this over and over again, and maybe someday I'll feel like I mean it. Flashes of it come to me almost constantly; the pain, his touch, his _eyes_, and a feeling too wrong I don't even want to acknowledge it. Some nights I'm trying to 'sleep' and it's so haunting, so frustrating that my hand drifts to my underwear, as if it has a little betraying mind of its own.

Tonight's one of those nights, and I just decide to go with it. I'm touching myself hastily when I hear laughter, loud enough to have been in the room. I snap my legs shut and sit up. "Tate?" I whisper, hoping desperately that I'm wrong. _As if that'll make any difference._

"Am I interrupting something?" He replies, voice tinged with amusement and his words are a caress.

He steps forward out of the shadows, allowing himself to be seen. I could have guessed that he's been watching me. For months after our tryst, he tried to act as if things were back to the way they were, talking to me excitedly, ignoring the fact that I wasn't talking back. He played chess 'with' me, moving my pieces when it was my turn. It was so _sad_, and I felt bad that it went on for so long. It was my fault, really. Sometimes I would forget, and answer him with a smile, or a 'yeah'…and it started all over again, eager as the first day.

Then one night, it had been so long since my last smile, and I'd given up phasing around the house to avoid him, he took my hands in his, and before I could do anything about it, he whispered into my ear, '_I know you need time, Vi. I'll wait. I'll give you space, like you wanted.'_ His voice was wavering; I knew he must have been crying. The strange thing was, as soon as he phased away, I started crying too.

But now, with him standing right in front of me, all I could muster up was anger. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" I shout, and the way his grin grows makes me want to bash his face in.

"I heard…_sounds_, I was worried about you." He says, an innocent look plastered on his face.

"Bullshit." I fire back. "You were spying on me!"

He sighs, and goes to sit at a rocking chair near the bed. "Can you blame me? You haven't exactly been acting normal lately."

He's right of course. I've been avoiding everyone and everything. I haven't even been to see Beau in weeks. If he has been spying, he's probably referring to the cutting. I've been doing it almost daily, usually outside, in the gazebo. Sometimes it feels like I'm stuck, and I just sit there, bleeding for hours.

"It's none of your business—" I start, but he's inches away from my face, on the bed in a flash.

"I thought leaving you alone would make you happy? That's what you said, Vi. You're _supposed_ to be _happy_." He blurts, and his eyes are narrowed. _He's mad, at me_.

The closeness of his body has started to make me a little lightheaded. _He smells like rain_. And for a moment, I just look up to his eyes, wondering if I can find the monster there.

His eyes are like black holes, and I'm terrified that if I look too long I'll be sucked in. I turn my head to the side and stare at the texture of my blanket.

I hear him growl, actually _growl_, and my head snaps back to his. _Yep, definitely angry._

"Tate, I'll be fine, okay? I appreciate the space; I- I'm just not used to this whole ghost thing." I say quietly, and it's at least half-true. Being dead is almost like being in a waking dream, and none of us really knows the rules. Tate's convinced that we stay here forever, but some of the others, like Charles and Moira think that when we've repaid the bad we caused in life, we 'move on'. I'm not sure which the scarier option is. I guess either way, Tate will be here something close enough to forever.

I think about the day I found Constance outside of the house, dragging a man's body away that seemed to have been tossed over the fence and a shudder runs through me. _Maybe it wasn't him, murders are a dime a dozen here._

"Why are you _lying_?" He says, taking hold of my chin with one hand. His voice softens. "You haven't been fine, Violet, not for a long time."

He lets go of my face, and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding in. "Vi, what were you doing when I came in here?" He says softly, not looking at me.

I can feel my face redden. _He knows, so why is he asking?_ "I'm still a person, you know, I have…needs." I say, and it's the closest I can get to the truth without damning myself completely.

He nods and grabs my hand I yank it backward, but he doesn't let go. "Maybe…" He kisses the top of my hand, "I could help you." His words bring an ache to my body, and my eyes drift closed. "If you could just relax, maybe you could feel better." He leans in, kisses the bundle of nerves at the inside of my elbow, and a shiver runs through my arm, almost painfully. _He's making sense. Why is he making so much sense?_

"No." _Yes_.

He leans in and kisses my ear, "Just let me help you, _please_." His teeth tug on my earlobe, and a sigh escapes my throat. _Does it really matter anymore?_ His lips press to my neck and the ache inside me surges. He gently pushes me down to lie on the bed, and I let him. I'm trying to come up with a good enough reason to tell him to stop as he travels lower, heading to my chest. I think of what I saw a while ago, his mother, a dead body.

"Tate?" I murmur, and my voice sounds airy. "Hmm?"

"I saw—your mother, moving a body." I try to make my voice sound accusatory, but he's pushing up the tank top I wear to bed and I feel dizzy.

"Mhm." Is all he says, his hand going to palm my now exposed breasts. One hand moves to stroke lightly through my panties.

"Well? Was it you?" I ask, pushing my hands against his chest, proud at the clear irritation coloring my voice.

He pauses. "Yeah." He tries to lean back in and I shove my hands again, hard. "You _kill_ someone, and all you can say is yeah? Who was it?" He frowns and answers, "No idea." Suddenly I feel very nauseous. "Then why? Why would you kill him?" His sigh tickles my ear and my arms feel very heavy. "I just needed to. Sometimes people just _need_ things, Violet." His hand brushes against my inner thigh and my arms drop to my sides. "Is he the only one?" I breathe.

"No." He replies, and at the same time my heart contracts in terror, he pushes aside my panties and thrusts two fingers in. I squeeze my eyes shut, as my world seems to sway and swirl around me. His fingers curl slightly inside me and I desperately try to hold on to the disgust at his answer. Pleasure rolls through me, and I moan when he tongues around my nipple. "How many?" I groan, and I can feel his reply as his mouth moves over my stomach, heading downwards. "I'm not sure. Five?" He places a kiss just below my navel, "Ten?" Kiss lower. "Twenty?" Lower. "Try not to think about it, you're supposed to be relaxing, remember?" His tongue sweeps along my slit, I hadn't realized my legs were spread this far apart.

"Why haven't I seen them around?" I ask, care for the answer quickly fading away. "They have to die on the property. I made sure that didn't happen." He sounds like he's telling me how he fixed a television, not about the murder of strangers.

His mouth tongues my nub for a second, and then moves quickly to thrust its tongue inside of me, right beside his fingers. I yelp-groan and the added appendage makes me feel stretched. "All _you_ have to do, is focus on this, Vi." Tate pants out, moving his mouth to flick at my nub roughly.

I can't help the squirming, and buckling of my body now, as ecstasy blurs every bad feeling into good. I'm digging my nails into his head as he works, and his hair feels damp, and I'm not sure if it's because he's sweating or if I've caused him to bleed.

_I hope he's bleeding_. Tate's a monster, an awful person, a killer. He's horrible, a sadistic, impulsive liar. I want to rip off his fingers, tainting me with his toxic love and feed them to Thaddeus. Even as I gasp, feeling the pleasure crest as my insides shudder, I picture biting his tongue and ripping it out.

_Is this how it starts?_

The euphoria of my orgasm leaves me floating, and I don't even move for a minute. I feel him lean back, sitting on the edge of the bed, but I don't look. I don't do anything, but lie there, trying to live out this little carnal happiness as long as possible.

"Violet?" he says, and I think about ignoring him. But then realize that would do very little good now. "What?" I croak. "Can I sleep in here tonight?" He sounds so sheepish and hopeful, so much like who I saw him as back when I was still alive that I don't even think of my answer. "Yeah."

Tate cuddles up next to me, arms around my waist and I wonder if I can ever forgive him, and what kind of monster that'd make me.

What we're doing is wrong. I know that. Tate, in some way or another, is always trying to manipulate me. _Not trying, succeeding._ He takes advantage, hell, sometimes he _forces_ himself on me. He _kills_ people. For no good reason. And it's not hard to guess that he _likes_ it.

But he's soft, comfortable. His touch is reassuring; he has the hair of an angel. Eyes with such dangerous darkness. And he loves me more than Cobain loved Courtney. A love so violent and sure…

Leah said that the Devil can be beautiful.

She was right.

**AN: I'm on a goddamned roll. One review and I wrote a whole chapter. I feel bad saying this, but I'm enjoying writing this so much more than my other story.**


	4. Chapter 4- A Departure

**IV. A Departure**

_I know I never used to feel like this._

_I used to never think of death or hear voices._

_I used to feel like everything was perfectly in order, a normal life,_

_but I guess then came a departure._

Violet looked so peaceful when she was sleeping. She doesn't need to sleep anymore of course, but she still did, and I liked that.

She's awake now, changing her clothes and getting ready for the day. She went out and to the bathroom to change. She's modest. She hasn't said a word to me yet, but she smiled at me when she first woke up. It was a bit weak, but that's okay. She isn't truly happy, not yet. But she will be.

_Last night was perfect._

Making Violet happy is one of the only things I care about anymore. Things have been fading, for a long time, becoming gray, and more distant. Except her. She's my star. And she's burning brighter than ever.

I knew what she was doing last night when I interrupted her. Or, rather, _why_ she was. She was thinking of me. I _know_ she was.

But I didn't mention that part, because I knew it would embarrass her, make her shy away from me, again. I couldn't have that. Not now. _Not anymore._

It's working, I think. All the care that I'm taking. She didn't send me away this time. Not when we were done, not even after I admitted what happened to all those people. Maybe she didn't get the whole truth, but that's okay, because I'm not really sure myself. Some of it I do remember, anger, violence, blood, always so much blood. But sometimes I'm not even really aware. I just wake up and I'm _surrounded_ by blood, by body parts.

Those are the times that make me worry. Even if just a little bit.

It's an addiction, like Vi and her cutting. _I need it_. There's just so much. So _much_ shit in my head. It's poisonous, and I need to cleanse it.

Violet is the only other thing that helps with that. I feel clearer around her. I don't have to think about anything else, just her. She's everything.

I wonder if she'll try to make me stop.

I'm not sure that I can.

Not yet.

* * *

She's back, and I quickly sit up to greet her. "Hey, Vi."

_Beautiful, as always. _She's wearing a black sundress with straps, forgoing a jacket today. The exposed skin, unusual for her, is incredibly tempting and I feel myself go hard instantly. She places her used clothes in the laundry bin and pauses before turning around slowly. And, sensing trouble, an uncomfortable pressure builds in my chest.

"I ran into Moira in the hall."

I swallow the lump in my throat. "Yeah? What'd she want?" I move to the end of the bed. I try for casual, uninterested, but anxiety blooms inside me. _Moira doesn't like me._

"She said your mom's been asking for you, and you've been dodging her." I close my eyes for a moment, relieved. "I don't want to talk to her."

I hear an angry sigh and my eyes fly open. Violet looks upset. She purses her lips tightly for a second before speaking. "Don't you think you owe her that, at least?"

"What do you mean, Violet?"

"I _mean_ she's taking care of your _son_, Tate. Have you been to see him, even _once_?" _Where is this coming from?_

I get up from the bed, walking over to Violet. She won't look at me. I feel a sharp pain in my chest, as if I've been stabbed. _No, not already._ I grab her chin as gently as I can given my emotional state, and she winces. "No, no, no, Vi, come on, look at me, don't do this again."

Her brown, doe-eyes are wide, and wet. And cold.

"He's my _brother_, do you realize that?" Her voice is distant. _Slipping away_.

Something shifts inside me, and the fear in me burns into anger. "What did she say to you?" I ask, trying very hard not to lose it completely. Violet doesn't answer, just blinks. There's a pain at my temples, my hand on her chin tightens, and I hear her inhale sharply. "What did Moira _say_, Violet?"

Her head jerks away and she crosses her arms, rubbing them, as if she's cold. "Nothing I didn't already know." Her perfect face twitches. _I wish she would just cry. Anything would be better than this coldness._ _I want Moira to suffer for this_. I reach out to touch her but change my mind, and my arm falls awkwardly back to my side.

"I'll go visit him, if that's what you want." My voice is strained with desperation.

She shakes her pretty head and wipes at her eyes. "Moira's seen him. Says he came here once, looking for you. She says that he's like you. Only worse." She smiles bitterly. "And you know what sucks? That just makes me terrified. I didn't think there _could_ be something worse than you."

Her words hurt, because I know she's telling the truth. In many ways, she hates me. More than anything. But there is at least one way she doesn't, one way she loves instead of hating. As long as I have that, _I have her_.

I don't know much about Michael, all I know is from my mother. She's told me that he's cruel, and smart. That he smiles too much, like he knows the secret, and that he doesn't look like a child anymore, that he looks older than _me_. _How old was he anyway? 11? 12?_ Clearly, he's not normal. He's unnatural, a paranormal phenomenon. I don't even know what he _is_. Human? Ghost? Half-breed? Monster? Demon?

I should have been to see him, Violet's right.

_But that'll have to wait_.

I look at the stunning wisp of a girl in front of me and feel the knife in my chest twist at the way she's staring wistfully out the window, like she wishes she could leave, leave this house, _and leave me_.

My fingers clench and unclench unconsciously. Every step forward we take two fucking steps back. She feels ashamed of herself, so of course my guilty little Violet will take any excuse to be angry with me. _And why shouldn't she? You're a monster._ I can't keep letting this happen. Or I'll end up doing something I regret.

"Are you alright, Vi?" She's touching her arm, methodically. _She wants to cut_.

She looks up suddenly, as if she forgot I was there. She sighs, "No." I move forward and hesitantly take her in my arms. She relaxes in my arms and my heart soars. She starts talking so quietly that I have to strain to hear her. "I used to think I was strong, you know?" _You are._ "What a load of crap that is. The fact that I'm in your arms right now and not trying to find a way to rid the world of you or at _least_ hurt you is proof of my utter fucked up weakness."

I hold her at arm's length. "Violet, you can't think like that." I squeeze her shoulders. "—_This_ isn't weakness, its love. You love me, Violet, despite all the shit I've put you through, and all the horrible things I've done. You may be scared, but you don't stop. That's _love_, that's _strength_." I lean in and kiss her on the forehead. "You're _fearless_, Vi, in every way that matters."

I crush her body to mine; sure I must be hurting her. "…I don't know what I would do without you." I pull away slightly to place a soft kiss on her lips, a pleasurable tingling spreading where they touch hers. As I move to kiss her again she unexpectedly shoves me away.

"No, Tate. Not anymore." Her voice is wavering. I can feel my heart beating violently in my chest. "You can't mean that."

Her eyes narrow and she crosses her arms. "No, but I want to. And that won't happen if I keep letting myself be comfortable with you."

My head is screaming at me to do something, _anything,_ to stop this train wreck from happening. But as soon as I decide what to do, she's gone, phased to some other part of the house.

It feels like I'm falling apart. I want to scream.

* * *

_There's something about all that blood man, I drown in it_.

I didn't think I would ever be doing this again.

I watch as the knife makes a thin red line appear on my arm; see it bloom like a flower into tiny creeks. I see it happen again, a thinker line this time, that bursts with wide torrents of pretty red liquid. It all falls into a bowl underneath. I'm not sure why, but I wanted to see it all, measure something abstract. _Can it stop? Can there ever be no pain left?_

I know I'm not thinking straight. _And that's good_. I don't know where I'd end up if I were going straight.

Violet's face keeps coming to mind, her voice, and her smell. I have to drown those in blood… _Violet's_ blood tasted heavenly. _I wonder—_I cautiously flick my tongue out to lick at the diagonal river of red on my arm. I grimace. _It tastes like copper._ Everything about Violet is different. Pure, _delicious_.

A wonderful, easy, rhythm forms; cut the valley, watch the river flow, think of _her_.

It's easy, and simple. But it's not enough. And sometime, hours, or maybe days after it started, the pleasing numbness I'd built up fades.

I throw the knife at the wall in fury and it lodges itself deep in the wood of the house. The bowl has overflowed, and now there's blood all over the table, some dripping down onto the floor. The sight is mesmerizing.

I hear a small gasp behind me.

I turn around slowly and in my still-heavily bled out state it takes me a moment to realize who it is. "_Violet_." I say her name like I'm praying to a deity.

"T-Tate, what did you _do_?" My mind is clearing slowly as my body heals itself. "Purging evil spirits." I mumble, not quite sure what I mean even as I say it. I glance at the knife stuck to the wall and her eyes follow. I look back at her and her hand is on her mouth. _She's so damned cute_.

Violet comes over and grabs my shoulder, urging me up. She drags me over to the plush chair on the other side of the room and tells me to wait there. I watch her as she phases out, coming back a minute later. She's holding cleaning supplies. She gets to work cleaning up the mess I made, wiping up all the spilled blood, and dumping out the bowl when she phases out again, probably in a sink. When she's done, she reaches up, yanks the kitchen knife out of the wall, examines the hole, and sighs. "No fixing that." She murmurs, and it strikes me as funny so I start laughing. I'm laughing so hard that tears start falling out of my eyes.

"Tate!" Her voice snaps me back to reality. She's been shaking me. Her face looks worried. I think about what she said earlier and the warmth in my heart from seeing her face dies. "Are you alright?" She brushes the hair out of my eyes. _Worried. About me._

"…Violet." I can't think of any other words. My mind is stuck. _Do I apologize? Leave her alone again?_

"—I'm sorry." She interrupts. I don't breathe. "I know this was because of me. I just—don't want—what happened to you happen to me. I don't want to hurt people, and I'm scared because I've been having these—these thoughts, and they just won't go away."

There's tears in her eyes and everything seems clear again. _She didn't mean it, she's just afraid I'll change her. _I reach out my arm and pull her down to straddle my lap. _She doesn't get it, does she?_

I kiss her hair, shushing her and petting her head until her breathing is steady again, "Vi, you are _light_, you don't have to worry about that okay?" She doesn't seem convinced. I shift, thinking of the right words. "Think of it this way; lights are seen brightest on the edge of darkness—I know you feel like you might be changing, and maybe you are, but in the end you'll _always_ have the light inside you, no matter what. _No one_ can take that away." _Not even me. Not even if sometimes, at my lowest, I wish I could._

She shakes her head, "You don't' _really_ know what you're talking about." She leans down to kiss me hard on the mouth, taking me by surprise. "But I really hope you're right." Her mouth moves against mine and her lips taste salty from her tears. I don't really know what's going on, and I'm worried that she's just going to run away again so I push her gently. "Violet, is this what you want?" She nods earnestly and breathes, "I don't want to think of anything for a bit, Michael, my light, anything, _please,_ Tate."

_How could I refuse?_

I crush my lips back to hers, and she grasps my hair, pulling it tight. I realize quickly that she's fighting _me_ for dominance and an animal excitement fills me as I fight back forcefully. Her tongue is in my mouth and I bite it and she squeaks in pain. I pull her hair hard and ravage her mouth, growling low in my throat.

She manages to pull back, and bites my lower lip, causing it to bleed. She increases the pain, biting _into_ the wound, aggravating it, making it deeper. I groan. She grinds her hips into me and I squirm.

I push against her, managing to push us to the floor and now I'm on top, I have the advantage. I lean in and bite her neck, hard. Suddenly the idea of marking her, even if for a short time is tantalizing. She's trying to move but I pin her, and make bites everywhere I can. I'm satisfied when I pull back and see her skin covered in small bloody welts. I lick them, tasting the blood that wells up before the marks disappear altogether. _She's so sweet, like sunshine_.

I yank her dress up her legs, exposing her sweet, white panties. I feel my heart beat irregularly. Grasping her hips, I kiss her roughly on the mouth again and she moans. Her hand grabs my shirt, pulling it over my head. I finish the action and toss it to the floor. _I want to make her scream_.

The thought becomes an obsession, and before I realize it, I've already undone my pants and am holding my dick at her entrance. I don't give her chance to think about it, to do anything about it, I quickly tug her panties to the side and drive into her, as deep as I can go. _**My**__ Violet._

She does scream, in shock, and it's_ beautiful_, but it's not enough. I shove her dress down so that I can reach her breasts. As I'm thrusting in and out, I lean down and take one of her nipples in my mouth. I bite hard, tearing the sensitive skin there and she shouts for me to stop. I let go of it obediently and move to the other one. She screams at the sudden pain, and _that_ one is all the more beautiful. I feel a pressure building at the base of my cock and I know I'm already close.

In my haze of ecstasy, my hands find their way to her throat, and I squeeze, hearing her choke, her fingers reaching up toward her throat. I pump faster and squeeze tighter automatically. I'm mindless, and somewhere inside I know I should let go, at least relax my grip, but I don't. White lights explode beside my eyes and I finish, my fingers are trembling they're holding on so tightly to her throat. To my utmost surprise, I feel Violet's walls convulsing around me, prolonging my high. I let out a feral roar and Violet repeatedly gasps underneath my hands.

I fall against her chest, my hands falling limply to my sides and I try to find my way back to steady ground. I look up at her face and she seems stunned at what just happened.

That was _messy. _Bloody, and _violent_. She wouldn't have acted like this two years ago, like in the attic. There was always a limit, and I could sense when I was about to hit it.

But this time there was no barrier.

No limits.

_She wanted the violence_, _needed it_.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she is really changing.

Or maybe this is who she's been all along.

**AN: This one's slightly longer cause I haven't updated in a while. Tell me what you think! Too much smut? (Can there ever be too much?) Eh? Hmm?**


	5. Chapter 5- A Broken Jar

**V. A Broken Jar**

_I watched the jar break,_

_And I've been trying to repair it,_

_Every single stupid day._

_But won't the cracks still show?_

_No matter how well it's assembled?_

_Can I ever just decide to let it die,_

_And let you go?_

My heat tightened in my chest as I gazed at Tate's anxious, bleak eyes.

I've learned the signs by now.

It would start as an occasional absence, his mind not present when his body was, I would have to repeat things, his ears unhearing. Then it started to reach his eyes. The visions. I could all but see them flashing through his mind, fingers clenching and unclenching, swallowing. Blood, and fear. Thoughts of violence. Whether they were _his_ alone, completely, or if the house—or _something_—really did have some sort of hold on him, more than the rest of us, I didn't know. I didn't really want to know.

Then he would get frustrated, snapping at me for the tinniest, petty things, or rather, the everyday things.

_He looked haunted. This was one of the few times he allowed himself to be consumed by it, in front of me, anyway. It should have repulsed me…and it did, a little. But beside the clear desire in his eyes—a want to cause pain just to satisfy himself—stood fear, faint and smothered as it was, it was there, and I pitied him. His eyes snap to attention. 'I hate it when you look at me like that! I'm not some goddamn psych patient, and you're sure as hell not your father, so stop analyzing!'_

Then, apologies.

'_Oh my god, Vi. I'm so sorry, I don't know what…'_ But he never finished that sentence, because it would have been a lie. He needed his next fix. He craved the violence. Maybe he didn't really want to _kill_, but it would happen, when he let the monster out.

I realized something about that, as soon as the thought occurred.

_Me, he could have me._

What is dead may never die.

I don't think myself a righteous person, or even a person with much of a heart at all—not anymore. I wouldn't do it for the collective _them_, the general immediate population surrounding the house, I would do it for _him_. I wanted to help him, more than _anything_. It was disgusting, and unforgivable. But it's the simple truth. _I care for the Devil's well-being. His peace of mind, his soul…_

Did ghosts have souls? Did the Devil have one?

* * *

I reach out my hand to Tate's shoulder, kneading gently. He relaxes just a fraction, sensing what's coming by now.

"Let's head up to the attic." I suggest, feeling a blush creep up my cheeks at the true meaning of my words. _Hey, why don't we go have violent sex so you don't kill someone?_

I never meant for it to turn out that way—it was supposed be strictly torture—it just always did.

Pain turned to passion, especially for Tate… But if I'm honest with myself, I got caught up in it too. After the night he cut himself, it's been—impossible to deny my reaction to the violence, to him. He tested me, once, sardonically asking when I'd be 'running away this time'; but then he saw the look in my eyes and realized I had given up.

I would always come back. I couldn't say that I wouldn't run, because I would, surely. Eventually I'd be back though.

Always.

It was an unspoken understanding that I'm sure he saw as clearly if they'd been spelled out for him.

We were together in this. For better or for worse. For eternity.

So, I tried helping him, in any way I could. Stopping him from killing innocents seemed like the best place to start. It was hard the first time after that night, trying to figure out what _I_ could do. Feeling somehow responsible now that I'd decided to buck up and _try_.

It was a bit shaky that first time, Tate had been so wound up already that I was sure I had already failed, that there was nothing I could do. I jumped on him then, acting on instinct, shoving him against the attic wall, and pressing my lips hard against his mouth.

* * *

'_Vi?'_ _I don't answer him, not sure how he would take it if I explained that, I was stalling, trying to keep his attention away from the darkness. I grind my hips against him, pushing him into the wall, and he groans. A slight nausea rolls through me as I realize he must have already been hard. It turns him on, I determine, the thoughts. The feeling of aversion is swept away when he grips the back of my neck—apparently deciding he didn't really need an explanation, yet—and kisses me forcefully, parting my lips with a biting of my lower lip, invading my mouth. Our tongues dance together, a feeling that is simultaneously familiar and foreign. It doesn't take long for him to be fed up with our current position, and he turns me, pushing so that I'm the one against the wall, his legs between mine, mouth hot on my neck. He sucks, nips, here and there, and no sooner than I feel him trembling slightly, he latches onto the meat of my shoulder, breaking skin. He's losing control._

_Good._

_A hiss of pain escapes my mouth, and Tate brings his head back up to mine, twin pools of darkness as concerned as he's capable of right now. He truly does want me to be happy, even though he causes most of my unhappiness himself. He doesn't want to hurt me…If I don't want him to._

"_I-I…"His brows knit together, a frustration, and unwillingness to ask such a horrible thing. I decide that letting him think too much about it would be a very bad idea, and rapidly consider the best ways to push him over the edge._

_He can kill me as many times as he likes._

_I settle on violence._

_A sharp crack slices through the air as my hand makes contact with his face. "Asshole." I mutter, bringing a hand to the tiny wound on my shoulder. Tate brings a hand to his cheek, stepping back with disbelief on his face. "I didn't mean to, Vi." He says, narrowing his eyes. Anger._

"_Don't you always? Isn't that how you get off? You don't fool anyone, Tate. Especially not me. You're sick. And you've gone and made a sicko out of me, too." The words ring true in my ears, and I manage to put enough force behind them to make him flinch._

_The wind is knocked out of me as he abruptly slams me back into the wall, forearm pressed up against my windpipe._

"_You think I_ like_ being like this?" He pushes harder and I gag, heart beating rapidly. I guess it's too late to change my mind now. "You think I _enjoy_ knowing that you'll never be able to forgive me, because of what I am?! Knowing that regardless of your _fucking_ mewls at night, alone in your bed sheets; you hate yourself—and me—a little more each day for wanting me."_

_It feels like there's a growing pressure behind my eyes as my brain loudly begs for oxygen. He lets go and I gasp like a dying fish. Too soon, he crushes his lips back to mine, angry and vicious His hands slam on either sides of my head. I still feel fairly dizzy, and I think I would have crumpled to the floor if his body wasn't holding mine up._

_Tate pulls away to growl in my ear, "_You're_ not fooling anyone, either."_

_A shiver rolls through my body, and Tate sucks my earlobe into his mouth before pulling away and grabbing me by the wrist. He tugs, and I follow, completely confused. We stop, and it takes me a second to look down and realize what's in front of me. It's the bed, from something between us that happened only a few years ago, but seems like a lifetime. There's spots of dried blood all over it, and the cuffs are still laying, torn, at its sides. A flutter of panic causes me to pull my wrist, trying to move away, and to my surprise, Tate simply lets go._

_His voice is soft. "Sit down on it, Violet."_

_There's no reason for this command given, and I can't help the slight hesitance my suspicion causes. Tate's hands are clenching and unclenching by his sides, and the sight reminds me that the whole point of this is to let him get 'it' out of his system. I have to take whatever he has in mind._

_I sit down, settling on pulling my knees up to my chest and waiting. Tate doesn't say anything, just takes off his top. An involuntary swallow chokes me for a moment. He kneels down in front of me and moves his shirt in front of my face, holding it up. "I'm going to blind you, Vi." I give a shaky nod and Tate ties the sleeves of the shirt around my head, folding and twisting parts, making a makeshift blindfold. I feel him get off the bed. "Tate?" I murmur, my voice coming out much quieter than I meant._

_The sound of a chain dragging across wooden flooring meets my ears. "Tate?" I repeat, heart hammering unsteadily in my chest._

"_Yeah?" The voice is right in my ear and I jump, swiping out with my hands to hit him—asshole, but he's gone again. I hear his boyish laughter and wish I could see his face. He's so cute when he laughs._

_I hear the chain again, being placed into something, and not being brought closer. I exhale deeply in relief. There's some rummaging sounds and then I can feel the weight of Tate on the bed again. "Sorry," He says sheepily, "the chain thing—I was trying to scare you." I mumble the word 'dickwad' and very quickly feel Tate's hands gripping my face. "You shouldn't call me names." He says seriously. Instantly I'm in panic mode again. Why so serious all of a sudden? I know his cravings make him temperamental, but really, that was like, zero to crazy in 30 seconds._

"_S-Sorry." I mumble. I feel Tate's hands running through my hair, and lean into the gentle, tingling feeling his fingers cause. Swiftly, his fingers curl around my hair, grabbing and pulling sharply. "Ow. Jesus, Tate, wh—" His mouth slams into mine, bruising with their force. A sharp jolt of desire shoots down my body at the pressure. He pulls away, "No, you're not sorry, not yet."_

* * *

I blink away the thoughts of months past and look back to Tate's eyes. They're an endless abyss, mirror images of pain and desire. "No." The word is so shocking that it takes me a minute to decipher its meaning.

"No?"

"_No_. I don't wan—I can't do it again. I can't keep hurting you like that. It's disgusting. _I'm_ disgusting." Tate jerks away from my hands and I feel the foreign sting of his rejection. He looks angry, and he's chewing his lip in a way that makes me want to beg him to come up to the attic with me.

_Jeeze, when did I get so pathetic?_

I shake my head and try to reason with him. This isn't just about me, not by a long shot. "Well what's the alternative, Tate?" I prod. "Would _that_ be better, for anyone?"

Tate's answer is nearly a whisper. "Yes, you, it's better for you."

An angry huff escapes me, and I push Tate so that he's lying down on the couch, and move to straddle him. I'm about to scream and shout at him how hard he's making this for me by doing this, how _not_ better for me him killing again would be, when a creak at the doorway makes both of us tense.

A laugh comes from the intruder, "Is this a bad time, brother?" The stranger chuckles. "Or should I say father? I've never quite figured that one out."

_Michael_.

**AN: So, I'm kinda picturing Michael as a Paul Wesley-looking guy, with lighter hair and eyes, ya dig?**

**Honestly, this fic is more for me than anyone else, I know it's not popular, and altogether I think it's pretty un-likable, but it's fun.**


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